


Here and Now

by potterandpromises



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Isn't Canon, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Established Relationship, F/M, Flash Fic, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Prompt Fic, Whump, badthingshappenbingo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2020-02-15 16:58:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potterandpromises/pseuds/potterandpromises
Summary: A collection of flash fics (under 1,000 words) completed here in case of Tumblr deletion. Tags will evolve as applicable. Content warnings are in the individual chapter notes.





	1. A Revaluation in Unpleasant Conditions (Garcy)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted December 30, 2018 on Tumblr. Written in response to a gif prompt of Flynn pulling Lucy away from gunfire in 2x06.
> 
> Content warning(s): Death mention, intrusive thoughts.

He would die for her, Flynn realized. Which is really an odd revelation to have while brushing one’s teeth. 

The rush of fear and anger when that Puritan bastard had stabbed her had shocked him. But the time for bitterness had passed that night and his reaction this time around did not surprise him in the least. She was after all, his partner, and the only person who possibly actually liked him. Of course he’d feel protective over her. (That wasn’t the only reason, his brain said. But he told that part of his brain to shut up.)

She had opened up to him about Amy, which was more than he deserved. And she was open to getting to know him and that made him the most excited he’d been since getting out of prison. The most happy sense—

Wyatt banged on the door, yelling at him to hurry up. And for once he was grateful for the interruption.


	2. Burning (Flufus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “Hey, you’re okay. You need to keep the mask on, okay buddy?” by aliceinwhumperland on Tumblr. Vague circumstances are vague. Medical inaccuracies are inaccurate.
> 
> Content warning(s): Being trapped in a burning building & associated injures.

Something crushes and scoldshis thighs, his waist. But Rufus’ screams are gagged. He can’t move the lower half of his body but he can almost breathe; maybe hell is real.

“Hey, you’re okay.“ Rufus’ vision is blurred and painful, but the accent, and as he shifts his head against the dusty concrete, the looming outline; are unmistakable.  
  
“You— you need to keep the mask on, okay— buddy?” Flynn sputters as he coughs and pulls uselessly at burning wood. Lightheaded, Rufus wonders if it will make any difference in his outcome or just get Flynn incinerated too.  _It’ll be fine._ Flynn’s like a real life Hans Gruber, Hans Gruber could definitely escape a burning building, Hans Gruber is on his side.

Flynn grunts, and the debris pierces into himlike a dull, heated knife, then the wreckage topples aside and he feels light; now in the physical sense as well. Next thing he’s being grabbed by the shoulders and hoisted over Flynn’s.

If Flynn doesn’t collapse in the next minute, he’ll get to see Jiya again.

He barely registers the new air or the rough landing, until the mask is ripped off and Flynn collapses beside him, hacking and heaving. 

After a few long moments of this, Lucy yells, then her and Jiya are with them. Denise follows suit. 

His girlfriend holds him and whispers teary reassurances against his ear.  _He’ll be okay,_ he understands.

As paramedics reach him and Jiya steps a few feat back, she exchanges an appreciative nod with Flynn; who, Rufus’ is glad to see, is not without the same comfort, Lucy cradles his face in her hands.

If almost anyone else had saved him, Rufus would consider a fruit basket. He supposes this makes them even. Next time.


	3. The Beach (Garcy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: “I love that color on you” + Garcy

“I love that color on you.” Lucy muses, stretching out across their beach towel, resembling something of a pampered house cat.

Flynn lays down next to her, brushes her hair back, and buries his senses at her pulse point. She never asks why he wears a turtleneck in 85° weather; they both know.

 


	4. Memories (Garcy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sure changed a lot in the third draft.
> 
> Prompt: "[Warmth] for Garcy"
> 
> Content warning(s): language, intrusive thoughts, referenced parental abuse.

Fluttering images,only just beginning to overtake the pitch-black, shatter abruptly at the sound of creaking hinges. Lucy wants to scream. 

She manages to keep her breathing deep and even instead, careful not to give herself away. She can’t tell where Flynn is, only that he’s in the room. Lucy thinks she may be the only person alive to feel nothing apart from frustration at—

Soft, unidentifiable murmurings begin and she nearly flinches at their proximity. Words of devotion in a language she doesn’t understand, structured like a prayer or an apology.

Facing him isn’t an option now, she can’t  _ask_  to be warmed up— the time for a practical justification is over, anyway. But how she wants too, how she wants to  _cuddle._

He stands and she only barely hides her reaction, greatly aided by the blanket covering her like a mask. His hand spansher upper back. It overwhelms her in a way it shouldn’t, and she knows without seeing, the feeling is mutual.

Flynn withdraws his hand. Lucy doesn’t know why, only wants him back. Momentarily, absurdity, she worries it’s something she’s done. He leaves her space. It’s more apparent than ever how cold she is.

Several minutes later, he Inexplicably returns. And she considers dropping the act and using the element of surprise to get him in bed before he can think twice about it. But she wants to see where this goes, wants to see what he does.

For a long moment: he is as frozen as she feels (or, she pictures as much). Then her blanket is delicately shifted, exposing her feet to somehow colder air. But than something warm is placed over them. A rice sock, recognizable from when she was a child, her mother used—

Lucy does her best to indulge in a less complex and fucked up narrative, to feel the present warmth for what it is; a gesture of affection from a man she cares for. So, she lets out a happy sigh and shifts closer to it, passing it off as involuntary. He re-arranges her blanket and adds another. A few unnecessary seconds pass before the door shuts.

She isn’t cold anymore, at least.


	5. Who Did This to You? (Garcy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Prompt meme time! “Tell me who did this to you" for Garcy, Lucy to Flynn? Purty please? 😃" — x-voyevoda on Tumblr.
> 
> Takes place sometime post season 2.
> 
> Content warning(s): aftermath of violence, partial nudity in a nonsexual context, and a brief mention of mild self-harm.

“Who did this to you?" 

Flynn stops in the midst of undressing. Her voice is low and controlled: it’s a simple question.

He turns to see Lucy standing in the door way, eyes darting across his bare chest. Otherwise, her expression is blank; Flynn recognizes it as numb. 

"I didn’t hear you approach.” Though he had an idea she might.  
  
“One of the disadvantages to not having a proper door.” She gives the bed sheet they’ve tacked to the door frame a small tug.

“Usually I can hear you coming,” he murmurs, looking down at the torn shirt still in his hand. He lets it drop to the flour.

“Well I’m trying to get better about that.” Lucy steps into the room. “Now,” she moves closer still, “Tell me who did this to you.”

She’s less than a foot from him and her resolve starts to break. She does not look him in the eye, only studies the swelling along his jawline. Her teeth scrap across her bottom lip. “We were separated,” she continues in a soft, unsteady voice, “So tell me who did this to you." 

Does she feel  _guilty_  about this? She could have died in that riot on a normal day, let alone with a days-old stab wound she couldn’t quite manage to convince Christopher was  _fine_. And for what purpose would it serve? Him?

"I got distracted, thought I saw Emma.” Her gaze changes, searching his face in a different manner. Then, almost involuntarily, her focus shifts back to his bruised and raw skin. “It isn’t bad.”

She gives him a skeptical look. “You were limping.”

“And I got here just fine, didn’t I?” he says, still quiet, but with more annoyance then intended. Thankfully, she doesn’t react.

(It isn’t that she’s a bother, never. But this conversation is more than he can handle is his current state, possibly ever.)

“I’m going to get cleaned up, feel free to join me,” he quips, turning toward the shower. Where is that shower chair—

“Alright, I’ll stay." 

Flynn freezes in his tracks. 

He did not mean— 

Well he didn’t think— 

She can’t be serious.

But when he dares turn back, keeping a careful poker face, she is perfectly expectant. However, as the time without conversation grows, so does the emotion in her eyes, (uncertainty,  _pain?_ ). And she begins to absently rub her hip, pushing at her stab wound.

Anxious, He takes a step closer. "Can I see yours?” he says, glancing urgently at the space the assailant had dragged his knife though her flesh. She hesitates for a moment, blinking. Then answers by pulling her shirt up. Flynn glimpses her stomach, her ribs, and the swell of her breasts before he can catch her hand and the hem of her shirt. There is only so much he can handle in one day. 

“That isn’t what I meant.” Absurdly, he’s blushing.

“It’s fair,” she says. Flynn shakes his head.

He’s still holding her hand, he realizes. And it feels good, and she doesn’t seem at all bothered by it.

He lets go of the distraction and tries to kneel for a better look, but stumbles to the flour, wincing. And she pulls away— to offer a hand up. She’s injured, he refuses.

"Get me the shower chair, please.” She obliges and Flynn uses it to pick himself up. He decides to sit for a minute; Lucy stays put. Flynn doesn’t know weather to smile or dig his finger nails into his palm.

“I’d um,” he’d rather not thank about her reaction to the rest of his body in this state. “If you want to help, if you still want to spend time with me in an hour,” he gets up, despite Lucy’s worried look, and starts limping toward the shower, chair under his arm, “Meet me in my room, we can watch a movie together.”

“Okay.”


	6. Blood (Time Team)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "35 or 42 for the timeless pairing of your choice!!" — amandaflynns on Tumblr
> 
> Prompt options were: “If I could just get you to understand…” or “You can’t have it both ways.” and I went with the latter. 
> 
> Content warning(s): Implied police brutality. Gun violence and death (not of someone you know or like,) which is not inflicted by a police officer.

Lucy tries to reason. “Officer, if I could just get you to understand—”

A shot rings out: the man’s body falls and blood pools on the flour. Lucy’s shoulders tense; she doesn’t flinch anymore.

When she turns back to Rufus, he’s shaking, but okay by their standard of the word. And Flynn is helping him up, urging them from the scene.

“It was a trap,” she says to no one.

“I know,” comes Flynn’s reply.


	7. These Summer Days (Logan Family/Wyjess)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Logans take a road trip, Jessica reflects.

Sunlight filters though the leaves above, casting uneven patterns onto the dirt, her daughter’s pigtails, and the dog’s broad back. The trail continues into an open field and Hank bounds ahead, Lizzie runs after him, and Wyatt after her. 

Jessica smiles and takes her time. 

It’s all late nights near the fourth. It’s late June and they don’t know if fireworks are a problem just yet. But it’s a Friday, and she doesn’t want it to sneak up on them again.

Wyatt is saying something to her about running ahead, which was never a concern during her toddler years. Making up for lost time, she supposes.

In the past, they did not deal with the situation— they did not raise her as well as they should have: her whys were often shut down and the things they said around her, about the war, stuck. But she seems to understand that it’s different now: she’s asking questions and playing more freely, and they’re beginning to understand, too.

Hank’s deep bark startles her. He’s running circles around Lizzie. Wyatt’s grin does things to her heart. 

Years ago, it had been her want of a dog that inspired this road trip’s predecessor. The dog did not work out, but her pinning had brought her to a blog post about dogs and fireworks, and in the comments, someone said they would drive the back roads all night to avoid them. And so: the next year, that’s what the two of them did. This time around, it’s motels and campsites.

He flashes her a goofy smile and she joins him standing under the sycamore tree. “We make good kids, huh?" Lizzie falls on her face, a frequent occurrence, it doesn’t seem to bother her. 

Jessica hums in agreement.

The present tense is not lost on her. They haven’t talked about it yet, but she knows Wyatt wants more kids. After sorting out a place to live, jobs, therapy, and the routineness of living and rising a child under normal circumstances; they’d adopted Hank. That was six months ago and Jessica—

She’s happy with the way things are. They’re in a good place. But…

She’s curious what it’d be like to be pregnant without everything she’d ever believed in felling out from under her, without losing her first family, without the constant background fear that she’d be caught and subsequently murdered. She wonders about what would be different and what would be the same, what it would be like to give birth in a hospital, use a stroller, have consist access to doctors, diapers, the outside world.

But that doesn’t seem like a good reason to try; she cannot live in the past.

(She also wonders if Lizzie would like a little brother or sister; Jessica thinks she would.)

Lizzie comes and sits down by their feet, laughing as Hank licks her face. “You’re going to let him do that honey?” She will; she always does. Lizzie replies by laughing harder, Hank responds by licking more voraciously.

They had driven all night the first fourth after the war and hadn’t stopped apart from bathroom breaks; it was a coping mechanism, not a road trip. But then Lizzie finally asked a question, and Jessica sent Wyatt to the backseat because that should be encouraged and he needed the distraction. They’d discussed the moon, and Jessica felt as she feels now: in love. So in love. 


	8. Reputations (Murdervision)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> badthingshappenbingo square: Undeserved Reputation.
> 
> Set shortly after Chinatown and the reversal of Rufus’ death. As always, Christmas isn’t canon. 
> 
> Possibly medical inaccurate.  
>  
> 
> Content warning(s): Self-harm, injury, & false conviction.

Flynn stares down a show he can’t name, trying to force it into an adequate distraction. Jiya is siting next to him, periodically switching her attention between the TV and her book. This new safe house is even smaller then the bunker: she’s clearly avoiding Rufus. But he doesn’t vocalize the observation _—_ they don’t talk, and with the week they’ve had, he doesn’t really feel like being an ass.

The show ends, Flynn is bored.

Moving his arm this early is not an objectivity good idea, but he’s had worse. Checking that Jiya’s gaze is currently fixed on her book, he slowly removes his sling. Sensationalist images appear on screen, he scoffs. The fact that he’s deliberately causing and controlling the searing pain in his muscles does register as cause for concern. But he doesn’t care. Hehates the consistent ache, hates not moving, hates being useless. At least this is doing  _something—_

He hears mother-in-law’s voice, low and clear,  _how—?_

Her face is on the screen.

He’s dividing for the remote before he can process the implications: it burns, he stumbles, the volume increases and he somehow wages himself between the couch and the coffee table. Pathetic.

Jiya’s alarmed face looks down at him, and he takes full stock of his own disarray, adding ragged breathing and clutched shoulder. “Are you _—_ " 

A voice he doesn’t recognize uses his name and she understands. The TV turns off, the accusations disappear, and she still stands there. "Thanks,” he manages though gritted teeth.

“No problem.”

He can’t admit it, but he’s grateful. 

She picks up his sling, and when he has a chance to breath and make sure his stitches are (probably) intact, and the pain is bearable, he tries to put it on. But Jiya ends up helping him anyway, hands awkwardly skimming his chest and back. 

With no where else to go, he pulls himself onto the couch, leaning back. And to his shock, she plops down next to him, and turns the TV on again, immediately changing the channel to some nature documentary.

Her relationship problems must be worse than he thought.

“Hey,” she says, after a few minutes of watching mountain goats descend a cliff, “I get not wanting to see your… false reputation, okay?” She’s looking at him, reaching out; for what? understanding?

How do they view her?

How does he? 

He doesn’t know her very well. She’s smart, capable, doesn’t like him, (fair). And until recently, she wasn’t on missions; an outsider to that shade of violence: Innocent.

Ah. 

“Yeah,  _reputations._ ”

They both breathe a little easier.


	9. No Right Answer (Lucy Preston)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years after the war, Lucy contemplates her situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: In-depth description of suicidal ideation.

Outside, people are talking. Lucy can't quite make out what they say, but they sound happy. 

The guest bed is comfortable. There's a bathroom in the hall. They probably keep ibuprofen, sleeping pills and the like in there.

Overdosing in Jess and Wyatt’s house is an objectively bad idea: there are far too many people here right now. And If she goes though with this, she cannot afford to survive. And they shouldn't find her; it should be clean, it's the least she can do, not being able to stay.

And she can manage to wait a little longer in order to shed the horrid possibly of being found by a child. She’s done harder, so why does that feel like a brick on her chest?

And she doesn't even know if she can handle dying at home— Flynn’s walked in on enough death. 

 _Flynn; s_ he breathes in _;_  he'll be fine. Things aren't how they used to be: she isn’t the only person in his life. He has friends, a support system, he'll be fine, eventually.

(She thinks; she thinks.)

If she's going to do this, however, she really should push away, leave, stay gone for a long time. And eventually they'd hear about it, and they'd be sad for a bit as a courtesy and they'd move on, and it would be fine.

(Perhaps that’s an insult to her friends.)

She’s thought of just packing up, leaving a quick note, and not looking back, not caring where she ends up. But that isn’t her. And they might worry, that’s the last thing she wants. And geographical cures don’t work, she knows that first hand, and she’s been too week to go though with it at any other opportunity, so she doesn’t see the point.

And it's selfish; all those people she killed, erased, they didn't get a choice, any luxury in their demise, why should she?

But ending her bloodline could be worth all the hypocrisies— Rittenhouse fell in part because Emma killed David‘s descendants, and that made it unstable; rallying around her wasn’t the same. Lucy’s death would be good for the future, securing that she’ll never change her mind about anything.

Except, what’s to stop someone from undoing it, if Time Travel is possible? And does any of it matter? Is Rittenhouse still there? Do those that are left care for her blood, the blood of any hypothetical children?

Can she do  _anything_? Would this help anyone besides herself, or is it just an excuse? She wants to die. Is she wrong? she cannot afford to get this wrong.

She finches, though the knock on the door is gentle.

"Hey, are you feeling any better? We're going to make s'mores," Jiya asks.

"I— a little, mostly, I'm just really tired." This doesn't seem to convince her, but Lucy is out of ideas. "I might join you in a bit," she adds, when Jiya is reluctant to leave.

Only when Lucy turns over, shielding her face from the harsh light in the hell, does the door close.

Maybe she’ll feel better in the morning.


	10. Halloween (Garcy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the Garcy October prompt: Trick or treat.
> 
> Content warning(s): Food mention

Once a year, the clothes Lucy has carried though six moves— three safe houses, two apartments, and finally to the house she and Garcia bought together— the ones she stole from decades and centuries previous, come out of storage. 

She’d thought about donating them to a museum, but couldn’t think of an origin story that would endure scrutiny. Besides, she likes having keepsakes from those strange few years. In the beginning, she’d found that physical proof helpful to remind her that yes, it was all real. And she owns to Amy and to history to remember, always.

Now, she puts on the outfit she wore on the Robert Johnson mission and smiles: music, a respite, getting to know her partner.

“What are you supposed to be?”

He laughs. “Isn’t that what I’m supposed to ask you?”

She finds Garcia at the door, taking to a little girl, seven or eight years old. He’s wearing his Salem outfit. Rufus had suggested it.

“Mia! We don’t have all night, this is only our third house, you can’t talk to everyone.” Another girl, 13 or 14 and undoubtably their trick-or-treater’s big sister, walks briskly up the drive way. Just for a moment, Lucy aches for her old home. But the girl stiffens, eyes wide when she sees Garcia Flynn, wearing leather and surrounded by machine produced fog.

His smile is forced. “Enjoy your candy.” The younger girl rejoins her sister, thoroughly annoyed. And he closes the door, Spider-Man and a bumblebee still far down the road.

“You okay?” He’s gotten better at interacting with kids again. But scarred or injured children will always be a sensitive subject for him.

He smiles again, real and a little sad. “Fine.”

She mirrors it.


	11. Facts (Garcy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set early season 1, not canon compliant.
> 
> Pretty sure that first safe house was all one room, but we’re going to ignore that.
> 
> Content warning(s): Murder (not of anyone you know), violence, blood, injury, Hurt No Comfort and non-consensual medical treatment.

The more Lucy thrashes, the more she bleeds— Flynn had warned as much— into his shirt, the ground, the Mothership, and finally the industrial barn’s floor. 

“Let me go!” her voice breaks on the last syllable. She’s tried shoving backward, twisting in every direction. Now she goes limp, breathing uneven under his arm.

Outside the door of a more secure room, hemakes eye contact with Kari. “Get the first aid-kit.” 

Crossing the threshold, he does let go, and she half falls, one palm outstretched, crumpling.

“No.” He thinks it’s meant to be another shout, but it’s a whimper, and she shakes, in tears, on the concrete floor.

He approaches, and she recoils to the wall.

“Yes.” He crouches a few feet away, and she pulls her knees to her chest, hand clasped tightly over the wound on her ribs. “I won’t even do anything yet.” Puffy-eyed, she looks murderous. “Just  _let me see._ ” 

He grabs her free wrist. She yells. He pries her other hand from the dark stain on her side, pining them both above her head. Pushing her knee down, he leans in to examine ~~—~~

Her skull collides with his, sending him backward.

_Of course._

Impressive.

“Okay,  _my bad._ ” He raises his hands in irritated surrender. “I won’t touch you.”

The satisfaction on her face, mixed with definitive furry, may or may not be his imagination.

He begins to pace the room. Now would be a  _great_  time for their partnership to to come to pass. “What happened,” he stops, turns to her, “what caused that? a knife? a piece of debris?” She looks at him like he’s the stupidest and least trustworthy man in the world. “Well?”

“You—” She scoffs. “It was your guy."

He runs his fingers though his hair, nails scraping his scalp. "My ~~—~~ ”

For a second, he isn’t breathing. He’d told his men to  _grab_  her if they saw her. He said not to hurt her—

She’ll never trust him and it’ll be for good reason.

He knows what needs to be done.

“I’ll be right back. Keep pressure on the wound.” She’ll be fine, this won’t take long. “And  _lay down_.” He avoids eye contact, and closes the door.

“She alright, boss?” Heat envelops him.

Some of the others call the sandy-haired man Napoleon for his short stature, which he’s seemed to embrace. His given name is Sam. Either way, Flynn takes him by the collar and slams his head into the folding table. Metal against concrete, whimpers against rage. 

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” On the ground, Sam curls in on himself, blood trickling down his scrunched face.

“I—“ He gasps. “She—“

“What?” Flynn steps on his ankle. He cries out. “Finish your sentence.”

He picks Sam up, again by the collar, and he struggles just a little. It’s pointless, they both know it. Flynn studies this boy’s face, so terrified, and has the fleeting thought that he needs to vet his employees better.

No one attempts to save him. Flynn lets Sam drop to the ground, pulls out his gun, and without further hesitation, shoots him in the abdomen. 

Blood runs fast and Flynn steps over the body. In his peripheral, another of his men moves fruitlessly and cautiously to help him. He’ll die, but not immediately. Maybe Flynn will put him out of his misery on the way out.

Flynn opens the door to find Lucy laying face down, breathing rapidly— which is an absurd half comfort— with a significant red pool under her. There are hand prints on the well and the ground, where she must have dragged herself in a futile attempt to escape. Guilt washes over him, but there’s more to be done. 

“That isn’t what I meant,” he mumbles, and with great effort, she looks up at him.

It’s hard to tell if she’s more afraid of him or her own physical state. “Will you let me touch you?” he whispers, lowering himself to her. 

Her gaze flickers between his hands and his face. She doesn’t respond.

He makes a decision, and reaches out as gently as he can manage. She doesn’t fight being turned on her side, but her skin seems to revolt. He braces against her ribs, finally getting adequate pressure on it, and she cries out; her gaze as fierce and fearful as it’s ever been. 

“Should I get someone?” Karl asks from the doorway.

“Get me a burner and tell Anthony to fire up the Mothership. I’ll call someone from her side, we’ll leave when they get close.” Karl, ever the dutiful employee, leaves to do as he was told.

Hands grasp uselessly at his.

“You’re a monster,” she says, and everything inside of him aches.

“Yes,” he says softly. “I know.”


	12. Cherry Coke (Wyjess)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration and title are from the song ‘Bartender’ by Lana Del Rey.
> 
> Set sometime post-Chinatown, featuring double agent Jessica.
> 
> Coca-Cola Cherry actually wasn’t released until 1985— but maybe the butterfly effect changed that. ( ;
> 
> Content warning(s): Language, mentions of violence and murder; this whole fic is set in a bar.

Aside from the folk-rock and burnt orange, bars haven’t changed much since the '70s. The vibrancy is refreshing.

He’s easy to spot, because somehow— and Jess would really like to know the events that lead to this— Wyatt is the bartender. She can’t help but smile; how the tables have turned.

He doesn’t notice her right away, vexed and occupied with a group of young women, apparently out to celebrate the brunette’s engagement.

“Could I get a cherry-flavored coke?”

“Jess...” He whirls around, nearly spilling a drink, wonderstruck. “What are you doing here? Walt, is Emma—” On reflexive, he reaches for a gun, though his bow-tied uniform clearly doesn’t allow for one.

“No, we’re alone. For now.” Unless she felled to detect a trail.

Wyatt sighs in relief, just in time to be interrupted by a costumer. And he’s about to tell the man to fuck off, but Jess makes a noise in her throat and smiles, willing him to  _just do the job_.They can’t have anyone overhearing this. He complies, irritated.

For once, they are on the same homicidal page. They don’t have much time. She thinks Emma trusts her, knows she relays on her more then the freshly indoctrinated teenagers or hired muscle— God those kids. Her chest constricts. What will happen to them when it’s all said and done? Would advocating on their behalf bear any weight while she may still end up in prison herself? 

No, best not to think about that right now. What matters most is right here.

Wyatt sets the man’s drink down with more force then necessary, and turns back to her. “How’s the baby?”

“She’s good. Kicking a lot.” When she says it, there’s a light about him, and she almost wishes it didn’t mean anything. 

“But Wyatt, Emma’s been tightening my leash. We have to move on her." She says it as gently as possible. They both know the risks: swift or drawn out death, imprisonment. But it can’t go on like this, she can’t sentence their daughter to Rittenhouse, and no matter what she chooses they might still die; all of them, and for Emma no less.

For once, he is quiet, though she can see warnings and questions and pleadings behind his blue eyes— she’s always loved his eyes. And he reaches over the counter, and entangles their fingers, right next to her cherry coke.

"We could run away together." Tears begin to form. He'd spoken those words once before, when they were 15.

"They'd track you," she reasons. “And I do have a way out, when the time comes.”

"I'll fight for you,” he says. She can barely see. "I’ll always fight for you.”

She doesn't know weather a happy marriage is possible for them. They’re both trying to be better for her, that’s enough. But if they can do this, help take down Rittenhouse? they must be able to do anything. So, she squeezes his hand. "Me too."


	13. New Traditions (Garcy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First fic of 2020! A Christmas fic. Better late than never, right?

They lay on an air mattress, Flynn propped up by pillows, Lucy by him. She scrolls through Netflix’s recommendations. 

In contrast to her partner, who intends to catch up on the last half decade, Lucy’s making her way through a plethora of old movies (a few of which, she’s pretty sure the team’s presence influenced). But when that fails— and she’s getting to that point again— when she needs to completely shut her brain off, she turns to Real Housewives.

What? She’d tried to be interested in the pilots they watched. But whenever she googles them for triggers, they've always been canceled on a cliffhanger or the fans hate it now. So while Flynn watches, she’s usually poking around online for a job, talking with the team, or cleaning up a little. And conditions permitting, sometimes she’ll take a walk around the block, thank you very much.

The awkward angle becomes painful and she drags her aching bones upright, still searching for Flynn’s sake. Not that he refuses to watch it or do other things, but the mutual exhaustion is palpable and his wry comments about the show would not be appreciated at the moment. 

She presses the remote’s same button in quick succession, down on down...

And halts over Miracle on 34th Street.

"That's fine,” he says, breathing deeply. They’ve been in bed all morning, bad dreams and realities keeping them up most of the night. She looks over at him. He catches her eye, understands there’s more, and waits.

"Christmas is... when?” 

Flynn picks up his phone. "Five days."

"We haven't done anything.” Her own statement rings miserably true, holiday-related and otherwise. And she hears Flynn’s voice a few days in, warning her to be gentle with herself, that one doesn’t just bounce right back after a war, and since they were considerably compensated for their work— hush money, Lucy suspects— they can afford to live in a cheep city for a few months without renewable income just fine.

So now they have subscriptions to every streaming service 2019 has to offer. And it’s been good to sleep, to hear stories, to journal and eat. But two weeks later and her judgment is shot, a fulfilling future is laughable, and nothing is to be trusted as real— except for him, her brain automatically corrects. But on the next second, that’s false again. If only Homeland Security would give them ‘permission to tell a therapist’ for Christmas.

"Did you have something in mind?" He licks his lips, watching her intently.

“No.” She sits up, crossing her legs. “But I don't want to completely ignore it.” Through dark socks, she cracks her toes, noting a small hole. “We can do just about anything we’d like. Except travel.” They waited too long to buy plane tickets, she’s checked, and they don’t own a car. Moving to Ohio (the cheapest state, Lucy read once), fleeing, had seemed like a good idea after being trapped in a black site for days. It hadn’t even occurred to her that everyone else wouldn’t scatter. That it was her choice to— physically— lose them.

He sighs. "We don't have to do anything;” she’s quick to reassure. “If you don’t want to.” If it’s a sore spot;and the idea of celebrating without him is completely unappealing.

"No, I just—” He pulls himself into an upright position. The mattress is beginning to deflate again. “I just miss them.” He smiles sadly, squeezing her hand, reassuring. “And I would like to do something with you. Maybe not stockings and   wreaths and cookies— what?" 

She looks up at him though her eyelashes. 

And there he is. This side: laughter, radiance. Exhilaration bubbles in her chest; it’s been so long.

"Do you want me to make you cookies?" 

She bites her lip, hoping to defeat the rising blush. "If it’s not too much trouble..."

"Of course. What else?"

A weight’s been lifted, and the promise encourages her. “Definitely call everyone day of. Check a few Christmas movies off our lists..."

"While I make you cookies," he finishes.

She tilts her chin up. (It’s not as if he  _hates_  doing things for her benefit.) “Yes.”

His smile, the way it fits into the lines around his mouth, is gorgeous. And maybe one day, she’ll get used to his soft adoring looks the way she got used to his presence by her side, hands folded.

The moment ends naturally and she misses it instantly. But they’ll be more, she reminds herself. This, and him, are here to stay.

“I may want to attend Mass.” He clears his throat. “And if we’re actually are going to go out and explore this city, the decorations are a good incentive.”

He doesn’t actually look too smitten with the idea of going outside. But if there’s a tradition to keep now, it’s one that necessitates fresh air and possibly sunlight. So she agrees.

Flynn studies her, and gains a mischievous glint in his eye. “Did you um, want those cookies now?”

“Are you offering?” 

“If you get the ingredients with me, I am.”

Making plans can be fun, Lucy decides.

“I’ll get my coat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miracle on 34th Street is actually not on Netflix. It’s on Disney Plus. Meh.


	14. A Walk in the Woods (We Lost The Sea) (Garcia Flynn)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime post non-Christmas canon.
> 
> Credits to We Lost The Sea’s gorgeous album Departure Songs for helping me write and title this fic; and to Adam Silvera’s novel They Both Die at the End for putting me in the right emotional state to do so.
> 
> Content warnings for suicidal ideation and canonical character death.

Padding along a forest trail, with the ghost of the Atlantic still present in his nostrils, Flynn recognizes the absurdity of his life.

They’re in The Colony of Massachusetts Bay. Earlier, they spoke with pirates. Before that, he ate cheerios. Now, they are simply walking, commuting home— back to their safe house— 

Time Travel: the world hasn’t a clue. He googled, after São Paulo’s Lucy told him, expecting at least some community of Flat-Earthers to keep it in their bottomless basket of conspiracy theories.

(Lorena’s aunt was a conspiracy nut. She told him not to engage. But after too many hours in the same space, he’d mess with her, once exclaiming shook at the suggestion  _she_  believed in  _the moon_. Because of his job— or how he treated her— she thought he was in on it and hated him for it. Like the rest of her family now does.)

Iris dead, four years, and he's still alive. Why is he still alive? 

— because he knows there's still a chance to save them. And if he doesn't, no one else will. 

And there's Lucy. 

Lucy, who doesn't need him, but requires love and guidance though this... adjustment, learning how to be, how to breath as a lonely killer. He can't trust that anyone else will help her.

But she will adjust; eventually. And he imagines letting go then. Even if his work isn’t over, and he hates himself all the more for it.

"Are you okay?" They’ve fallen behind, him and Lucy. Another reason he can’t leave: she’ll fall behind one day, alone, and get swallowed by Rittenhouse, by a stray bullet, by some—

"Yes." 

Doubt’s written across her face, but she doesn’t push the issue. They keep walking, and he keeps watching.

The patches of sunlight on her waistcoat are the sort of thing Lorena would have noticed too, for very different reasons. He wonders if it would have interested her enough to paint.

(Probably not, she disliked detail work. Maybe if Iris noticed, every beautiful little thing worthwhile to her.)

"Would you like to do something tonight? Just the two of us?" he asks, nearly whispers.

She looks up at him, and nods slightly, relaxed. "Movie?"

"Okay." 


End file.
